When my husband introduced me at the wedding as “just the driver,” I didn’t argue, cry, or make a scene. I smiled, set down my gift, and quietly left. Two blocks away, I parked and waited. Inside that box was the one thing no one there thought to check until it was far too late.
Claire Mercer had spent forty minutes curling her hair, another twenty deciding not to wear the navy dress Evan liked because tonight, she realized, she did not owe him pretty. She wore black instead. Not mourning black. Clean, sharp, expensive black. The kind that made people assume you belonged wherever you stood.
The wedding was at the Halsted House in Winnetka, just north of Chicago, all white roses and valet lines and old-money brick. Evan checked his reflection in the passenger mirror before they got out, smoothing his tie like he was about to walk into a boardroom instead of a reception for his managing partner’s daughter.
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